


Do Not let Shirogane Takashi Into The Kitchen

by kuill



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8193763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuill/pseuds/kuill
Summary: The last time Shiro had Tried His Hand At Cooking, the Garrison was forced to initiate a full-scale evacuation. It had been a disaster and Shiro had gotten banned from every single cooking instrument available.But here in this Lion Castle and free from the laws of the Garrison, when the whole place smelled like mac'n'cheese and all the other paladins were too busy with work, Keith knew he couldn't sit back and let history repeat itself all over again.--A Shiro and Keith fluff/crack fic for #voltronpositivity weekend, in which Shiro really wants to cook and Keith really does not want Shiro to cook.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Enough has been said about the recent happenings in VLD fandom; I shan't beat a dead horse except to add:
> 
> Please be kind to each other. We're all just trying to get by.
> 
> This is my tiny contribution to the Good Vibes #voltronpositivity weekend, hopefully things will be better and if not, I hope this cheered you up even a little!

Keith was awoken by the smell of mac'n'cheese, which was a great smell to wake up to, except for the fact that they were dimensions away from the nearest lump of cheese and out here the word ‘pasta’ might actually be a heinous curse.

So what was that, if not mac? Keith had no idea — no, he didn’t _want_ to have an idea at all. The only one with respectable skills in the kitchen was Hunk, and _he_ was traipsing on the nearby planet of Guion, though with Lance’s fantastic company, Keith had no idea how Hunk was going to find any of the herby things he needed. And as for Coran’s Paladin Supplements (you could actually _hear_ the capitals when the reedy old man spoke), Keith and Pidge both would rather starve than test out one of his… new exploits back in the kitchen.

Which left…

Oh god.

He had never run so fast in his life. The last time Shiro had Tried His Hand At Cooking the Garrison was forced to initiate a full-scale evacuation. Firefighters scrambled to take control for a full three hours, leaving everyone else nothing to do except bake in the desert heat and watch a really, really embarrassed Shiro try to calm down Major Ryu, who had lost his favorite land rover to the raze. It was a bad time for all the Majors, not least Major Iverson who was roused from a nap and trying his darnedest to hide his fluffy bedroom slippers from the rest of the recruits.

The culprit of the blaze was found a while later: a saucepan so blackened even Hell wouldn’t accept it, in it the petrified remains of muck and the visible edge of pasta shells.

It was, to put it mildly, a hellish clusterfuck. But the Garrison opted to be the institution with Better People and graciously decided to flat-out ban Shiro from all cooking instruments and outdoor cooking classes for the entirety of his time there.

Of course here in this Lion Castle, surrounded by unknown gases and god knew what materials, out of reach of the one law of the Garrison Keith could justify, Shiro had free reign to do what he liked.

_Oh god._

"Shiro! If you’re cooking, stop," he yelled as he rounded the last corridor, more than slightly out of breath from his panic, "Don’t cook. Don’t do… what you’re doing."

"Aw man, not you too." There it was, that specific, petulant pout which screamed that Shiro was determined to get his way.

“Sorry, Shiro, but that’s not happening.” Keith growled firmly, his best _I am putting my foot down_ voice. It didn’t take more than a couple of seconds to quickly close the distance to the kitchen and he was all but tumbling into the forbidden zone.

Shiro was waiting for him, armed to the nines and ready for battle. Was it tension in the air? Actual, true to god _tension_ ? Not only that, but more than — there was adrenaline too, bloodlust, _bloodlust_ , and the overwhelming urge to win.

Suddenly this was… nothing like Keith had initially expected.

The door hissed shut after him, effectively imprisoning them both in this space.

This was do… or die.

“You’re not stopping me,” said Shiro again, making his stance clear. He was wearing a vaguely robe-like… apparel that must’ve been the equivalent of Altean aprons and half of it was stained with the green gooey muck they had for dinner yesterday (not that Keith was complaining, since the laces showed off Shiro’s waist nicely; it was a weapon only because it nearly made Keith forget he was supposed to stop his closest friend from destroying their home with good intentions.)

“I absolutely will.” Keith snatched up a frying pan (far heavier than expected, Keith noted with a grimace as Shiro smirked at his reaction). “You’re _not_ going to get your way. Fight me.”

Behind Shiro, a pot bubbled ominously and let out a belch of thick, purple steam.

The Black Paladin of Voltron revealed his weapon of choice: a threatening bundle of loops that were fanged on one end and pulsed a vicious Altean blue at the other. Keith glanced at his own inanimate frying pan, suddenly outclassed. “It’s a whisk _and_ an air fryer in one, powered by this very castle,” explained Shiro deviously, eyes narrowed and glinting with the thrill of a fight. “You wouldn’t want this caught in your hair.”

A subtle curl of caramelised snow marred Shiro’s otherwise impeccable fringe.

“Hey. My eyes are down here.”

Keith glanced around the kitchen-turned warzone, quickly taking stock of the damage. No broken dishes or utensils, no toxic spillage staining the flawless marble tiles, just some strange dried weeds and a possibly-alive lump oozing slowly in its basin near the sink. Everything was inscribed with the angular insignias of Altea but none of them were sharp enough for his purposes.

“Where are the knives?”

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro purred, more smug than Keith had heard in ages. “Can’t your dagger stand up to all these amazing kitchen instruments?”

Keith narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make me take out my sword.”

“You’re not in armour. And besides—” Shiro flicked his right arm up and his metal hand burst to life, otherworldly purples and strange magics responding easily to his call. “I can take you on.”

Staring down the fearless leader of Voltron, Keith couldn’t help his throat bobbing. Shiro took a step forward and Keith immediately knew this wasn’t going to be pretty.

He held up his frying pan, poised to strike. “Shiro, don’t do this. You’re gonna hurt people.”

“I have to, Keith,” Shiro’s confidence melted into something sad, and oh, how it _hurt_ to see Shiro this way, so bitter and so resigned, “I love cooking. You know that. I’ve always wanted to try. They took away my chances in the Garrison, Keith. What’s the point of saving the universe if you can’t even make mac’n’cheese for a midnight craving?”

“We’re not on Earth any more. We can’t have mac’n’cheese here, Shiro. This is… this is outer space now.”

Keith saw Shiro’s arm tense and flung his pan up. Something splattered heavily against the underside. Violet honey-like globules rained on his trousers and he had to force back a sneeze at the heady, acidic perfume that wafted up all around.

Through watery vision Keith could just barely make out his surroundings. Shiro was making his move, whisk raised and aiming for a simmering hotpot to Keith’s left that had somehow gone unnoticed, until now. Keith beat back all discomfort and rushed his leader, his comrade, his closest friend and more than.

Pan and whisk snared and locked, the two of them pushing up against the other.

He hated it, hated being the obstacle to Shiro’s earnest determination when all the other paladin wanted to do was _prove himself._ He could see it plainly ignited in the frosted ink of Shiro’s eyes, that specific edge that Keith had learned to recognise in his own reflection. Of course he knew it, he knew it all too well but there were things that needed to be done.

“No cooking, and that’s final,” snarled Keith.

Shiro’s gaze hardened. “It’s just an experiment.”

The serrated teeth grazed the rim of his saucepan and Keith pushed back, twisting the weapon with a harsh flick of his wrist. Shiro shifted his weight to parry it.

“Experiments always start off that way. Don’t you remember? You burned the toast, and my lunch. And charred the serving tray before finally burning everything down — Shiro, you can’t cook! You _burned water!”_

In reply Shiro snapped, “They don’t teach you to work microwaves in the Garrison!”

They sprung apart. Keith scrabbled for the nearest fling-able object behind him, fingers encircling a mass of Altean-brand softness and recklessly threw. Shiro was forced to duck behind the island counter, away from the stove. Crimson slime and buttery seeds rained heavily onto the floor.

The hotpot behind Keith let out an impatient gurgle, threatening to overflow. In his hurry Keith singed the back of his hand on the piping-hot sides but somehow he managed to slap the appropriate runes in the correct combination and the heat turned off with a relieved little hiss.

Licking his wound to soothe it Keith turned back to his quarry, who had steely focus chilling his usually-warm expression.

“Back away from the stove, Shiro.”

Shiro raised his whisk. His metal arm was loosely held beside him; his ideal fighting stance. They were both eyeing the last remaining pot on the stove. It had stopped bubbling, and now there was a faintly acrid scent emanating from it, mac’n’cheese done with the perfect touch of parmesan and doused liberally with vinegar.

Keith must’ve pulled a face then, because Shiro was scowling as he defended it, “It’s overdone,” his voice was fierce, heavy with conviction. “It tastes better than it smells. If you’d let me adjust it. It’s possibly the only thing I won’t burn in my life and it’s becoming overdone.”

The opaque mixture was pockmarked with faint suggestions of craters where bubbles had popped but the mass had been too lazy to reclaim the space. Maybe it’d pass off as a flower rapidly passing the last stages of decay if said flower existed in liquid form rather than solid. Keith regarded it with a mix of pity and distaste before Shiro’s words sank in.

They stared at each other a moment.

“Wait, wait,” Keith lowered his pan a little. “Isn’t overdoing something making it burned?”

“I fail to see your point,” Shiro tilted his head.

Keith raised an eyebrow. “You’re overdoing it.”

“ _You’re_ overdoing it,” huffed Shiro.

“No. You’re,” Keith stuck out his hands, “overdoing… _it,”_ he said, gesturing at the pot. “So, you know, you’re _burning_ it.”

Another meaningful silence.

Something viscous trickled down the side and evaporated in the heat, leaving behind a charred, cyan residue.

Said residue oozed, looking uncomfortably radioactive now, and when it touched the Altean runes there was an ugly hiss-whistle as air expanded too fast under that furious heat.

At the sound they both lunged. Shiro, with desperation; Keith, with panic. Keith dropped his frying pan for more maneuverability in the tight kitchen, but with a deft flick of his ankle sent the heavy metal skitting across the smooth floors — towards Shiro. The loud clang and the rotating utensil snared Shiro’s attention and that was the opening Keith needed. He pounced, slamming his shoulder into Shiro’s midriff and crashing them both onto the floor.

The force flung the long whisk from Shiro’s grip to clatter somewhere beside the pot with its pulsing, writhing contents. Above them the gelatinous mixture emitted another shrill hiss, louder this time, longer. More rippling past the metal lip. Any moment and it would surely overflow.

Shiro’s face was flushed from the heat in the kitchen and from so close he could see everything. How his scar looked so much paler, backlit by reddened skin. How that unyielding strength weighed down the set of his jaw.

How Shiro, the taller, heavier, bulkier of them both, could easily seize Keith’s wrist and push him aside like a ragdoll and before Keith could even think to react Shiro was already two steps ahead. That gleaming metal arm was held out to make sure Keith stayed on the ground, a clear impasse, a final warning that said Shiro was at the limit of his patience.

“Shiro,” Keith forced the words through his ground jaws, eyes darting between Shiro’s weapon and his unforgiving gaze. “You _can’t_ do this. You’re gonna burn down the castle. You’re gonna burn down the Lions. Coran’s gonna be mad.”

Shiro glared, but did not change his mind.

“Plus…” Keith glanced at the door, and now Shiro did too. They both knew it. He knew they both knew it. His words came out a heated whisper, “Allura’s gonna be _pissed._ Come on, Takashi, we’ll get in really, really bad trouble.”

Shirogane Takashi, the Black Paladin and Head of Voltron, faltered.

Just as Keith thought it was safe, that Shiro would now turn to reason — _and was Keith of all people really pleading for their leader to listen to_ reason _of all things? Really. Really?_ — Shiro gave him another one of those tragically pained, helpless little smiles.

No.

“Our commander on the Kerberos mission was the smartest man I ever met. And he always said—”

_No, no, no._

“If you get too worried about what could go wrong—”

_No, no no no no._

“You might miss a chance to do something great.”

Keith’s hands, clammy and clenched into angry fists by his sides, were ice cold. “Damn it, Shiro! Come on!” He growled and protested but he knew, oh he knew — there just was no convincing Shiro out of it when he was in a state like this. Neither of them refused to look away, each resolute in his own beliefs, each to his dreams and despair.

He could only watch as Shiro reached out behind him towards the counter to hoist himself up. The pot was all but vibrating now, so unstable that _anything_ Shiro put in it would certainly render them all space trash by the end of the tic.

Then he saw it.

A little too late, he saw it.

He only saw it when Shiro’s hand was coming down, the man’s weight shifting, pressing heavily onto none other than the handle of the dry-frying whisk, onto the end that glowed Altean blue while the other end with all its toothed edges were wedged firmly under the pot.

The dry-frying whisk strained.

Keith started forward.

“Shiro! No!”

As if in slow motion, Shiro turned. The man’s shift in momentum was the tipping point. The pot staggered for a long moment before listing, tottering on the very edge of its circular base before finally succumbing to the jealous pull of gravity.

Everything happened too fast.

Despite how congealed it looked the contents of the pot were surprisingly fluid. Under the ugly brown crust, the brilliant violet and magenta burst through and the world was a flurry of slimy orbs soaring through the air.

It would have been quite a sight if it didn’t drench half of Keith’s body.

He sat there, feeling overwhelmed, frankly far too done, too underpaid, and way too young to meet his doom, when he realised that the fluid was only mildly warm as though it’d been left out in the open too long.

Shiro, on the other hand, was already on his feet with hands in magenta-stained hair and absolutely, silently distraught.

“I didn’t even get to add the Hauya fruit,” he whispered, as though committing a great sacrilege.

“Shiro.”

The faintly moving _thing_ in the basin near the sink stopped moving, and Shiro rushed over to it, grabbed the basin and yelled at it. “Did you die? I thought you could survive in controlled temperatures for a hundred tics! I was saving you!”

“Shiro.”

“Everything was going so well… For the _first time_ …” Shiro slumped down beside Keith. His wet vest connected with Keith’s dripping jacket with an obscene _schlorp_. “I didn’t even get to—”

Keith reached over and gripped Shiro’s face with both hands (one coated with that pink-purply mucus and one singed), holding it tightly.

“Shiro. _Explain._ I thought I’d be burned.”

The light seemed to return to Shiro’s eyes as the gears in his mind worked.

Finally, a decent response.

“Actually, me too,” said Shiro. “I was genuinely terrified.”

Keith narrowed his eyes and Shiro let out a strained laugh. “Well, see, I didn’t know what was going to happen. It was an experiment! I guess it just cooled down too quickly. Maybe cooking does that to Altean grub.”

Well, that explained why everything Coran served was room temperature.

Keith let go and elbowed Shiro hard in the gut, then while Shiro was doubled over and groaning he raised his hand to his lips, selected the least offending violet spot and gave the foreign substance on his hand a timid lick.

He was forced to stop. The muscles on his face were twisting of their own accord.

_Was Shiro for real?..._

“Well?” Shiro _was_ for real, and watching him with sheepish eagerness, as though he’d just told the galaxy’s worst joke and was waiting for a response, “How… is it?”

Keith closed his eyes as he moved his hand for Shiro to try it too.

“... Whoa,” said Shiro, when he’d taken his own share.

“You mean to tell me that you’re the Garrison’s _worst_ chef, possibly Earth’s largest fire hazard, and the pickiest eater amongst all the Paladins, and you’re able to recreate the Garrison’s shitty mac’n’cheese with nothing more than alien ingredients you’ve never tasted before?”

Keith still felt like he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

“How did you—” Keith glanced at the basin and the… deceased thing that was inside it, “How did you know what to use? Or how much to use? Did you even _prepare_ any of these? Were they meant to be consumed? Will we die with this goo all over ourselves?”

Shiro opened his mouth to reply and Keith had a moment of great epiphany: when aliens and sheer dumb luck were involved, sometimes ignorance was much, _much_ more merciful than truth could ever be.

He slapped his hand across Shiro’s mouth, leaving a comical pink handprint and one Shiro, stunned into silence.

“Forget it, I don’t want to know.” He pushed himself onto his feet, pretending he notice Shiro licking his lips and cleaning his fingers from the pseudo-mac’n’cheese.

“Next time, you let _me_ do the cooking,” sulked Shiro. “I was _this_ close to perfecting some coffee, but it’s probably ruined now.”

 _Thank god for that,_ thought Keith as he said, “Oh, that’s too bad.”

He wasn’t expecting Shiro to stand and certainly wasn’t expecting himself to lean into that mucus-slicked embrace, or the smile he was trying to smother in Shiro’s black vest.

“I’m really sorry for making you worry,” Shiro murmured into Keith’s matted hair, sounding genuinely apologetic, “I just was curious. Kitchens intrigue me, you know? Especially since I can’t cook well. Ugh… tell you what, when we’re back on Earth, I’ll cook you something as an apology—”

“No,” replied Keith immediately.

“What,” protested Shiro. “But I want to show you how much I’ve improved—”

Keith snorted and grumbled, “Burning water? Genius.”

Shiro chuckled in embarrassment, and Keith felt that sound in Shiro’s chest as much as he felt it reverberate in his entire, alien-food-soaked body.

Ah, there it was, the missing heat from that alien mac’n’cheese was only now starting to spread, slow and steady, across the skin of his cheeks.

“You can cook me something while we’re out here. Maybe. Just once.”

The arms around him tightened.

“With pleasure.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The one who was most pissed was neither Coran, nor Allura.

It was Hunk, and he had all the rage of an earthquake that could shatter thousands of mountains.

Keith and Shiro got the cold treatment for two weeks. The full package: generous helpings of sour glances and thinly veiled bitter muttering (‘ _Use the kitchen for reckless sparring_ and _break my favorite decompressor? I thought the Paladins would be responsible and ask for cooking help but nooo you just gotta rampage and help yourself to the Terrera slime I’d been saving for two weeks and_ kill _it before it even secretes its ultra rare nectar why don’t you—’)_.

Shiro kissed Keith’s burn all better. Keith in turn snuck Shiro out to the kitchen in the dead of night to practice, and kept watch on the pots while Shiro fumbled and did his best to replicate that one night of golden, syrupy mac’n’cheese glory.

The reason for this, Keith kept insisting, was that it’d been the fight which made it taste so good. Shiro staunchly objected (though with every passing day he grew less sure of this truth).

So no fights were to be had, but there were plenty other ingredients to go around, like cuddles and tender kisses that, though not added into the final concoction, just made the secret midnight cookoffs absolutely delicious.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title: Do Not Let Shirogane Takashi Into The Kitchen (unless u are Keith)


End file.
